At midnight I am lost in someone else's poem. Feel my way blindly through foreign streets, stumble over cobble stones and past foreign lovers that call out my name. Their words are hushed whispers, promises of love, poetry that rolls of their Italian tongues like gelato melting against my lips. Let it echo down narrow ally ways, over Michelangelo's Bacchus. Sleeping Cupid. When it starts to rain, I can hardly see through the downpour of words that stream over my eyelids and into my mouth. They taste expensive, silky like the lining of Armani suits or perfect Italian leather. They sing like opera divas; "Facciamo l'amore! Facciamo l'amore!" Let us make love! Let us make love!
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